Of Monsters
by Caya Strife
Summary: A collection of one shots surrounding Geralt and Yennefer, set at various points in time, from the beginning of the novels to post-game. Naturally, here be spoilers! One Shot #1 Teaser: "Again, he thought. She hadn't tried to wake him, never did. Never would. If not for his extraordinary senses, he quite likely would never have even known. Would never have found her that night alm
1. Hours of Darkness

The slight tremor and rise of the mattress roused Geralt from his light sleep. For a moment, cold air managed to slip underneath the heavy featherbed and brushed across the calloused skin of his right leg, marking the sudden absence of her presence.

Again, he thought. She hadn't tried to wake him, never did. Never would. If not for his extraordinary senses, he quite likely would never have even known. Would never have found her that night almost a year ago.

It might have been bad then, but it certainly was this time. The third night in a row. It hadn't been this frequent in months. He indistinctly wondered what had triggered her, yet knew that there needn't be a reason. It was probably this randomness, this unpredictability that had unsettled him the most in the beginning.

The thought remained with him as he quietly pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He winced a little as his bare feet, still warm from long hours spent below the abundant bedcovers, met with the chilly marble floor. Although the glow of the waning moon alone would have been sufficient to illuminate the large chamber, a plentitude of candles and magical lights had been lit and cast flickering shadows. She never slept in the dark.

In passing, he pulled a blanket from a chaise longue, careful not to disturb the pieces of undergarment haphazardly strewn across the velvety cushions, and threw it around his shoulders. His steps, all but inaudible, found their way as if from cellular memory, recalling countless sleepless nights in which the same path had been trodden.

She stood by the open window, her back to him. Pale fingers clutched the translucent fabric of her nightgown, hardly any protection against the cold. Raven locks rustled in the light, chilly breeze, spreading the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries. Although her posture gave no sign, he knew she was aware of his presence. She always was.

After a moment, he softly walked up to her, stood behind her and enveloped the freezing figure in the blanket with himself. Without resistance, she allowed herself to be pulled back against his wiry chest, gave in to his embrace.

He knew better than to try and strike up a conversation, instead buried his face in the raven tresses cascading down her neck, drinking in her fragrance, inebriating himself on her being. Her slender shoulders, with their ever so slight irregularities, trembled softly, barely perceptibly. His hands found hers and gave a tender squeeze, a mere reassurance of his presence and support.

Still she refused to turn to him. Wouldn't let him see. Not yet. The tremors running through her body became more distinct, and Geralt slowly ran his calloused palms up and down her arms in a calming gesture.

The two of them stood in that manner for a while, as they always did, quietly giving and receiving solace.

After a long while, the trembling stopped, her breathing evened out. She wiped slender fingers across her cheeks. Slowly, she turned around to him, an insincere smile curving her lips up but not reaching her eyes.

"No sight more pathetic than a sorceress in tears, hm?" she half-whispered.

Geralt reached for her face, wiped at the remaining traces of moisture with his thumbs.

Their eyes met for a moment, but she was not ready to bear the intensity and glanced sideways, avoiding his piercing amber eyes. As she always did.

"Yen, hey", he gently took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and raised her head. His eyes probed hers intensely. She didn't resist. Not anymore.

It had to come out, she had to let it, he knew. He had witnessed what would happen - eventually - if he allowed her to keep pretending, and he would greatly appreciate never having to endure it. Neither of them. So as much as his question would cause her discomfort, even grief, not asking would ultimately be much more painful.

"The boy again?"

She pressed her eyes shut. A small nod, barely there.

So, the boy. The one with the shock of raven curls and emerald eyes. With the gap in his baby teeth which showed every time he smiled his beautiful smile. Who sat babbling to himself while he contemplated colorful pictures in his precious books for hours on end. Until he was eventually hoisted up, squealing, onto strong shoulders so he would finally get some fresh air. In other nights, it was the girl with the strawberry-blond hair and a smattering of freckles. With the tiny scar on her chin from when she had tried, pretend-sword in hand, a pirouette like her father and had tripped over a loose floorboard. Who unfailingly threw a fit whenever her unruly, knotted tresses were combed, screaming and sobbing so heartbreakingly.

It was often the boy lately.

"It's all right, Yen", he whispered, softly caressing her cheek.

It started with a hiccup - it often did. She leaned her forehead against his chest, no longer even caring to stifle the sobs that had begun to violently shake her body.

Geralt felt her hot tears drench his chest and encircled her with his arms, stroking her tousled, shivering locks as if he were calming a small child.

"Shhh… it's okay", he whispered into her neck, "it'll be okay. One day, I promise…"

Standing there, holding his devastated lover in his arms, he wasn't sure exactly what it was he was promising. He knew well that nothing was okay, perhaps would never be. Although it pained him to admit so even if only to himself, he was fairly certain that it was beyond his capabilities to grant her what she truly wished. Far more powerful people than him had tried and failed. Still, he would be damned if he didn't try.

One day, he told himself.

And until that day, she would cry for him - oh, she would cry - for the boy with the raven hair and emerald eyes. The boy who never existed at all.


	2. Place of Promise

High-heeled steps echoed arrhythmically along the uneven flagstones, the only noise in a night too eerily quiet after the clangorous tumult of the past hours. If one listened closely, one might - even in that unbroken darkness - discern the slight dragging of the right foot, a result of a deep gash in the upper thigh. Even though haphazardly bandaged with a stretch of finely embroidered, ebony fabric, deeply crimson blood still seeped from the wound and ran down the leg, leaving a gory trail. It would have been easy to say she had been outnumbered, overpowered, ambushed, but, in all honesty, Yennefer had to admit that she had simply been careless. Had been in a hurry to finish up and be done with it. She had never enjoyed physical violence, and Sodden had amplified this dislike to the extremes. Had it not been for the witcher, she would not even have considered getting involved. At least now it was finally over.

She dragged herself through a half-crumbled archway, grasping the stone structure for support and finally spied the old well sitting in the middle of a small forgotten square. Her eyes swept across the scenery in search of him, or even just one of his boots, a discarded glove, the tip of a sword. A puddle of blood.

And yet spied nothing.

Her heartbeat quickened and slowed at the same time, spreading a numbing cold throughout her chest. A strange buzzing and rushing deafened her ears to the outside, as if to force her to focus on unbidden thoughts.

 _No_. She refused to believe that something had happened to him. That stupid witcher had a penchant for grand entrances, one much more befitting of a bard than a warrior known far and wide by such colourful names as 'White Wolf' and 'Butcher of Blaviken'.

With a small sigh, she limped into the middle of the square, sat down and leaned her back against the steady coolness of the well.

Yes, he would appear any moment now, beaten and bloodied, chased perhaps, yet he would come. Just as they had agreed. In the event that they were to be separated during the fighting, they would meet by the well in the small square. They had both promised.

With stiff fingers, she inspected the wound in her thigh, tightened the bandage with a weak tug and a sharp hiss. She wondered what shape he would be in. Blood, especially his own, never seemed to bother the witcher. And once he had downed a few of those toxic potions and decoctions of his, care for his own safety began to dwindle even further. The countless thick scars lining his torso, limbs and even face were a silent a testament to that. In the past, she had sometimes suspected him of having a death wish - a state of mind with which Yennefer was all too familiar - but now those moments of self-loathing and -deprecation had become few and far in-between.

And he always kept his promises now.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she tried to drown out the throbbing in her thigh and calm those insidious voices in the back of her mind.

No, he always kept his promises.

That stupid witcher was just taking his bloody time.

With a sigh, she brought a hand gloved in soft sable leather to her forehead to drive away the onset of a headache, shakily massaging her temples.

For the first time since Skellige, she cursed her decision to have the Djinn remove the bond connecting them. If she hadn't been so insistent then, she would know now. Well, she _did_ know, but she would know _for certain_. As long as his wish had bound them to each other, nothing could have happened to either of them without the other becoming aware of it. For years, decades perhaps, the knowledge had consoled her. Whenever news of the witcher's death, more and more gruesomely illustrated each time, had reached her ears, she had taken comfort in knowing that, even if he had been harmed, he could not have died while she still lived. No matter the state of their relationship - whether she had loved, loathed or lamented him - the certainty of his reality had grounded her.

Even now, without the wish, their connection was undeniable, their love for each other different, but by no means diminished. Together, they had experienced too much, lived through too much. And survived.

Yes, they had survived. All those times…

"Stupid witcher", she murmured to herself, "I told you not to take any unnecessary risks. I _told_ you…"

While the words still sounded, some part of her expected him to stumbled through the archway, one of those blunt but smart comments of his on his lips, twisting them into a tired yet honest smile. With his eyes, he would apologise for making her wait, and his hungry lips would seek confirmation of her forgiveness and well-being. Her hands would search out his wounds, fingers tracing healing motions before conscious thought even commanded them to.

Yet the words faded away and the crumbling archway remained empty. No comment, no smile.

No witcher.

"I told you…" she whispered again, hoping to drive away the silence and with it, revive his image. Will it into existence. But the illusion had fled and would not return.

She remained alone.

The silence was absolute, enriched only by the rushing of her blood in her own ears, growing more overwhelming and frantic by the minute.

Sloppily, she murmured a spell to calm her quickening heart - this was neither the place nor the time to hyperventilate - but was only mildly successful. Her body was drained from both the wound and the countless spells she had hurled against her foes. Yet her mind returned to that smile. Over and over again. For long moments she sat in silence, in darkness, revisiting the same image. She knew she should move, search for him, but she had neither the strength of body and mind nor the courage to do so at the moment. No, now she needed rest.

Just for a little while.

Yes, _just a little while_.

"Stupid witcher…" she murmured, her voice trailing off as her eyes flickered shut and her breathing evened out.

Yet even in her slumber she could not find peace. Instead of calming oblivion, images of him found her. And of course she welcomed them. Welcomed _him_. Embraced him with all her body and mind, drank in his presence. Vaguely she was aware that once she opened her eyes to the world, he would be gone, would leave her, possibly forever. So she decided to ignore the indignant prodding and shaking that tried to tear them apart and force her into the waking world, decided to stay just a little while longer.

But the waking world remained insistent, called her by name.

 _That_ name.

"Yen!"

Her eyes struggled to open, welcoming her into a hazy twilit world. Slowly the indistinct shapes around her gained definition, contours, textures. Chainmail, leather, steel, skin, blood.

Her gaze traveled upwards and found his face, spattered with blood and contorted in worry. But still, _his_ face.

"Geralt…" she whispered. Her voice was quiet, drowsy with exhaustion and barely audible, but hearing it was enough for his features to brighten up immediately.

He said her name again, the tone of his voice betraying his relief. His lips formed into that rare, honest smile. "I thought… You had me worried."

Yennefer blinked, slowly regaining her senses.

" _You_ were worried? Oh, you stupid, stupid witcher…"

Raising his eyebrows, Geralt threw her an uncomprehending look.

"What–"

He was, however, never able to finish his question before she leaned toward him and greedily planted her lips on his. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her against his chest, locking her in a strong embrace. His presence was soothing, familiar. He still grounded her. And she him.

As they sat there by that old well, leaning into each other tiredly, the past hours fell away. They had survived. Again.

"Let's go home, Yen."

"Yes, home."

They had survived.


	3. Scars of Choice

Slender, delicate fingers gently caressed the leather-wrapped, curved hilt of the small kitchen knife, then slid down its concave blade unhurriedly, curiously, exploring every minuscule nick and dent. The metal, expensively layered and tempered, was cool to the touch. Solid. Strong.

She had feared her hands would shake with nervousness, shiver in anticipation of the task ahead, yet they held the utensil steadily, calmly. The choice had already been made.

Her first real choice, and yet not truly much of a choice at all.

She was a _bad_ person, she knew intuitively, and had been all her life. Oh, she had tried to be good, of course, had done everything she thought would please them. But papa always noticed when she was bad. He saw when she missed a speck of dust with the tattered broom - he had good eyes, her papa -, he heard when she whistled a song to herself, out of tune, while tending to the flowers in the garden, he noticed when her pretty dress was a little too tight around her crooked shoulders. He would strike her, of course. In the beginning, when she was younger, she hadn't known why, but eventually she understood. If he didn't punish her, how was she to know that she had been bad? Yes, papa had tried to teach her, to help her to finally be a good person. And mama helped him, eventually.

She cried a lot, mama did. Because of how bad her little daughter was, how rotten and incorrigible.

Oh, she had tried to be a good daughter, she had really tried. But as always, she had failed. It seemed she just couldn't be a good person. It was in her blood, papa had said, her cursed blood.

And that was why mama and papa had finally given up on her, had sent her away. Here, the ladies would take care of her, those beautiful women with the cold eyes. Perhaps _they_ knew what to do with her, papa had hoped.

She knew she had been a bad daughter, but still she missed them both dearly. At times so much that it hurt far worse than even papa's old belt with the bent buckle that he kept in the top drawer of his dresser.

No, there was no hope for her anymore. No one would be able to turn her, who was so inherently rotten, into a good person. It would be much better for everyone if she weren't there anymore. If she simply stopped being. The pretty ladies could focus on their other, better students. Mama and papa could finally stop worrying about their defective daughter and be happy. There would be no more yelling, no more crying. No more belts.

Yes, this was best for everyone.

She studied the knife again, carefully tested the blade against her palm. Despite the wear, it hadn't lost any of its sharpness. It would do the job well.

Breathing easily, she shifted the instrument from her right into her left hand. The former was her dominant, stronger one, so she hoped it would still be able to make the cut even when weakened.

She set the blade against the skin of her wrist - _I'm sorry, mama, papa_ -, pressed down hard and pulled it diagonally toward her body. The tiny line of crimson soon widened, skin gaping open beneath a steady flow of blood. She watched the spectacle curiously, detachedly, followed the macabre bubbles on their way onto the stone floor.

Finally, she tore herself from her trance. With a little difficulty, the blade changed hands, slick with blood, strangely sticky and slippery at the same time. She repeated the motion on her left wrist, putting even more force into it, severing arteries, and something else that gave a snapping sensation - tendons, maybe? Still, what did it matter now?

The deed done, she neatly placed the blade on the dresser in front of her and curiously regarded both wrists streaming with blood. She was surprised at how little it actually hurt. To be honest, she had been a bit scared that the pain would be too much for her to finish, that she would have to give up halfway through. That she would fail again.

But not this time. Just this once, she had done something just right.

As her heart hammered ever faster in her chest, the sound almost deafening in her ears, a clammy feeling spread from her hands to her arms and dropped to her legs and feet. Accompanied by a strange, vibrating dizziness, the cold finally reached her head and began to numb her mind.

Not much longer now.

As her breaths grew shallower, a small smile gently tugged at her pale lips.

Yes, she had done good. She had really done good.

 _See, papa? Mama? I've done good!_

* * *

Geralt felt his heart threaten to burst through his ribcage as the illusion was dispelled and his mind once again his own. Delicate fingers slowly trailed along his jawbone and came to rest on the white linens. Briefly he had to resist the urge to grab her hand, return it to his cheek to further ascertain himself that she was still there. Gradually, his pulse slowed, calmed by the knowledge of her very existence, her tangible presence, her warm body radiating the life he had just witnessed slipping from her.

"Yen…", his voice raw, his eyes sought hers while his thumb still caressed the faint scar that had prompted his question. A question he now wasn't sure he had had the right to ask.

But Yennefer gave him a rare, honest smile, the kind that reached even her unusual violet eyes. The one, he hoped, reserved for only him, and their daughter.

"You deserved to know, and I am glad you finally do."

Geralt hummed a wordless reply, unsure of how to express his own thoughts when he had so much trouble sorting them out himself. She knew them regardless, he was aware.

"Tissaia de Vries found me. She gave me quite the verbal lashing."

Geralt gave a small smile, his thumb still running circles along the scarred tissue.

"She was right to."

"I am not proud of what I did, Geralt. But I have no regrets", she supplied after a while, her gaze still steadily holding his. "Times were different then. I was not who I am now."

"For what it's worth, I love who you are, Yen. All scars included."

The sorceress raised her dark eyebrows, her eyes sparkling mischievously, ignited by his honest confession, and leaned toward him.

"Oh, and I love you, witcher. All of your scars included."


End file.
